The chilled wind blasts through the sea of people,
everyone shivering as I unzip my sweater
and embrace the sun.
They wait for their gas guzzling ride
while I embrace the lost art of walking.
To me, the chilled wind is nothing but a gentle caress
of lost warmth.

Society becomes scarce, but I still have an audience:
Birds sing sweetly; their song becoming my personal orchestra.
Squirrels scamper and watch me from the side of
burnt bark, afraid I will steal their nuts.
A snake slithers across the concrete oven,
desperately trying to get to the promising cool
of the evergreen grass.

I wondered what it would be like to be that snake
and to frantically dance across the burning coals,
and then to feel the fresh relief as long strands
of mini trees brush along my scales.

Towers covered with star leaves
dot the neighborhood’s street,
filling the barren roadside with fire.
But this fire does not burn, does not smoke,
and does not produce heat.
It only paints a picture and steals away the warmth
of the sun’s rays.

Shadows consume the land
bringing a depression unheard of.
But I knew the darkness would not last
and the sun would shine again.